Glare Ice

by Mary Logue

  She got the salt from the stovetop, and then she needed the sugar. A small bowl of sugar sat next to the stove. The chunks looked kinda big, but she was sure they would melt in the pie filling. She grabbed that and set it next to all her other ingredients. Then she got the measuring devices. She loved the silver chain of spoons, one slightly bigger than the next, and how they all fit together. So sweet.

  Now she was ready to go. It was more exciting doing it all by yourself. Total responsibility. She wished Mr. Turner would allow her that. If she home-schooled, she could really learn to cook. Her friend Janie, who home-schooled, did all the baking for her family. She was Meg’s same age, and she made chocolate chip cookies and pies and even cakes that she frosted and everything.

  First Meg lifted up the pumpkin can and turned it upside down. Nothing happened. She gave it a couple of good, hard thumps on the bottom, and the orange goop came sliding out. Plop! Gross, she thought. She wondered what it tasted like plain. Meg stuck her finger in and took a taste. Really gross! Like bad baby food.

  She was so excited her little cousin was coming over today. Maybe Bridget would let her hold Rachel. She knew she could do it. She was nearly the age where she could babysit. In another year or two, she would probably be baby-sitting Rachel. What a blast! Rachel would really be like her little sister.

  Then Meg wondered about Rich’s mother. She was picturing her like the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz. Her grandmother June was nice and always smelled like a flower. But Meg could tell that her mother was nervous about Rich’s mother coming and thought maybe it was because she wasn’t very nice. Meg would be on her best behavior.

  Carefully Meg started measuring in the spices. They made the mixture turn a darker color. It looked better, more like pumpkin pie should look. Then she cracked in the egg and mixed in the milk. She added the salt and then the sugar.

  She thought of trying the mixture again, but decided it would taste so much better when it was all cooked together. Like a chemistry experiment.

  “Mom,” she yelled. “It’s all ready.”

  “What?” her mother yelled back.

  Meg ran to the door of the bathroom. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure, sweetie.”

  Meg opened the door and, as she stepped into the room, was enveloped in the good-smelling mist from her mother’s bath. Her mother’s hair was up high on her head in a ponytail, and her body was stretched out in the tub.

  She didn’t see her naked very often, but her mother wasn’t shy or anything. She walked around in her bra and underpants if it was warm out, sometimes. She didn’t always close the door when she was going to the bathroom. But her mother’s body still surprised her—it was so soft looking with those round breasts. Meg knew she was going to get some, but she didn’t quite believe it.

  “I’m done, Mom.”

  “Great. I’ll be out in another minute or two. Thanks for helping out, Meg. I couldn’t do it without you.”

  “Do you need me to scrub your back?”

  “Oh, not today. I think I’ve soaked all the dirt off me.” Her mother stepped up out of the water and wrapped a towel around her body.

  “Hey, Mom, can we make ourselves beautiful for the company?” Meg knew just the outfit she wanted to wear—her red velvet top and black skinny pants.

  “I think that would be a great idea.” Her mother leaned over her, warm and wet smelling, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “I tasted the pumpkin.”

  “That’s a good idea when you’re cooking, to taste as you go along.”

  “It didn’t taste very good.”

  “It’s going to be delicious.”

  The snow was still coming down. Stephanie watched it for a moment as she packed a big duffel with clothes. Thank God the snowplows had just gone by on the highway. At least she would be able to get out of here. If she would have had to stay one more day, she would have lost her mind. As it was she was hardly sleeping anymore, hearing sounds in the night.

  Stephanie was only taking two of everything—like Noah loading up the Ark—two nightgowns, two jeans, two T-shirts, two sweaters, two pairs of shoes, two shirts. But she decided to take a week’s worth of underclothes. She packed enough food so she wouldn’t have to stop for a day or two. She packed a jug of water and put a huge bag of Snooper’s food in the trunk of the car. If need be, she could eat that. She had nibbled on it at work—it wasn’t bad.

  Her weaving she put into the backseat of the car. She made a bed for Snooper on the floor of the passenger seat out of an old afghan that her mother had crocheted for her. When they got settled, it would be nice to have the afghan with her to put on her new bed.

  Stephanie would contact her mother eventually, but she wouldn’t tell her where she was. Not for a long, long time.

  Jack hadn’t stopped by to see her, nor had he called. He often stepped back from her after a bad burst of violence. She truthfully thought he didn’t quite know what he had done, or he was able quickly to forget the reality of his offense. But he needed some time to do it. Even when they had lived together, he would walk around like he didn’t see her for a while. If he looked at her, he would have been forced to face the evidence of his work.

  She wished she could completely hate him. She was absolutely terrified of him, but in the core of her there was some part that still wanted him, that still believed she could change him. Maybe she would always have that. But if she got an ocean between them, it would be harder to act on it.

  Snooper was sitting on top of one of her piles of clothes. He didn’t want to be left behind. She felt like she could do what she was doing—running far, far away—because of the dog. She wasn’t as alone as she had been. She had something to take care of.

  The one time she had gotten pregnant, Jack had blown up and beat her so bad that she had miscarried. She tried not to think about it too much. Part of her had been so relieved. How could she bring a child into a household with this violent man? How could she protect it when she couldn’t even take care of herself? She was quite sure he had kicked her in the stomach on purpose.

  Her hands shook, thinking about it. Time to go.

  She carried down the last duffel bag. She was leaving the whole house full of furniture. She was also leaving a note telling the landlord to keep the damage deposit for December’s rent. She didn’t need him trying to track her down too. She had left a message on the voice mail at work, telling her boss that she quit. She had no mail coming that she needed forwarded.

  No trace. She was about to disappear.

  She went back into the house one last time. She would miss this place. A view of the lake, good walks, nice neighbors. Fort St. Antoine had been a good place for her to live. She had even thought she might be able to get enough work doing her rugs that she could make a go of it. But it was not to be.

  After scooping Snooper up, she did one last walk-through of the house. She picked up the earrings that Jack had given her for Christmas many years ago, carried them into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

  She had over a thousand dollars in her pocket. She had a fake ID that she had bought a few years ago.

  “Let’s go, little guy,” she said to Snooper.

  His body shook as he tried to wag his tail.

  She locked the door and walked to the car, which she had left running. It would be warm for Snooper that way. She put him into his little bed on the floor, even though she suspected he would spend most of the time in the car sitting on her lap, looking out the window. She gave him a treat.

  Then she backed out of the driveway. Too late, she realized that the snowplows had sealed off the end of it. She hit the white wall they had left behind and tried to drive through, only digging her car deeper into the huge snowbank.

  She tried to rock the car by hitting the gas and then putting it in reverse, but it wouldn’t move.

  She was stuck.

  11

  SHE tried to get people to call her Beatrice whe
n she first met them, but after a while everyone seemed to want to call her Bea. She didn’t like being a letter of the alphabet, a buzzing little creature that gathered nectar, a verb form. She wanted to be the lover of Dante. But no one else wanted to give her that.

  “Introduce me as Beatrice,” she told Rich when he came to pick her up. “Oh, the snow, should we really be doing this?” she asked him as she bundled into her black cashmere coat with the white ermine collar.

  “You look lovely, Mom. I will introduce you as Beatrice. Don’t worry. The roads were fine. I just drove them.”

  “But I have packed a small overnight bag in case I am forced to stay at your house.” Beatrice pointed to her little carry case, sitting next to the door.

  Rich leaned over and picked it up. “Good idea.”

  “I thought it wise.”

  “You are nothing if you are not wise.”

  She stepped out the door with him and locked it behind, checking it twice. “You humor me, Rich.”

  “Of course I do. You are my mother. It’s my job.”

  She had raised her son well. Even though she had married beneath her, married a man she loved dearly and never minded the sacrifice she had made for him—and a sacrifice it had been: killing fowl with her bare hands, cooking for large groups of people, rising at an ungodly hour to feed the livestock—even though Rich had been raised on a farm, she had done a good job with him. He had very nice manners and was good to his mother.

  “I hope I will like this new woman in your life,” she said as Rich handed her into the car. She was worried that the woman wouldn’t like her. His ex-wife had hated Beatrice. No matter what she said, she had planted her foot firmly in her mouth with that woman, who seemed to take even compliments as criticism. Beatrice vowed she would try hard today to be gracious.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Sometimes your taste in women has been questionable.”

  “But that’s all in the past.”

  “I do hope so, Rich.” She flipped down the mirror in the visor and looked at herself. Her lipstick was on straight, and there were no traces of it on her teeth. She would just avoid looking at the wrinkles. She had slept so poorly last night, fretting about the long drive ahead of her and the huge dinner. She fluffed her white hair, but with no humidity it had fallen a little flat. “But a policewoman?”

  “Even the criminals adore her. You’ll see.”

  “Who else will be there?”

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. There will be her daughter, Meg, who is a very bright child, and then her sister, Bridget, will be there, and her young daughter.”

  “How young?” Beatrice asked suspiciously.

  “Well, quite young.”

  “Yes?”

  Rich started the car and drove out of her underground parking lot and into the falling snow. “Rachel was born more than three weeks ago.”

  “Dear God, a newborn.” Beatrice felt herself cringe. Babies never seemed to like her. They always cried when she held them. She was afraid she would drop them. No proper conversation could take place when one was around.

  “Mom, you managed with me.”

  “Yes, but I had to. It was the only way to get you to a respectable age. Why do you think I had no more children?”

  “I know. You’ve told me many times.”

  “I will do my best.”

  They drove awhile in silence. But finally Beatrice tired of staring at the falling snow and turned on the classical music station. It added depth to the landscape. A little Bach, rather tinkly, but good.

  “What are you thinking of doing with this Claire?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will you marry her?”

  “Might. Don’t know that shell have me, but I will probably ask her at some point. But not for quite a while, I think. She’s still recovering from her last marriage.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I told you, Mom. Her husband was killed.”

  He probably had told her. How could she have forgotten that? Killed, my goodness. “That is drastic.”

  “She lived up in the Cities then. That’s one of the reasons she moved to the country. To get away from all that violence.”

  “What will she and I find to talk about? I know nothing about murder and mayhem.”

  “She’s just started quilting. You could ask her about that.”

  “Quilting. I didn’t know anyone did that anymore.”

  “Mom, you’re a snot.”

  “Well, darling, someone needs to raise the level of society these days.” Beatrice leaned her head back. She really hadn’t slept at all well. Her eyes closed on their own, and the last thing she heard was the end of the Bach piece, fading in her head like bits of snow sparkling in the wind. Tinkly.

  Then Rich was shaking her gently and saying, “Mother, we’re here.”

  Beatrice sat up. She felt so unprepared. “Don’t manhandle me, Rich. There’s really no need.”

  He stepped back and waited for her to gather herself together. “Have you got the chestnut dressing?”

  “Mom, you never gave it to me. Is it in your carry case?”

  “No, I would never put it in there. I must have left it on the kitchen table. Rich, what should we do?”

  “It’ll be fine. They won’t know what they’re missing.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve gone and left that behind. I worked so hard on it.” Everyone always loved her chestnut dressing. How could she have forgotten it? She got out of the car, and Rich took her arm.

  They walked up a shoveled path to the front door of a small white clapboard house. At their knock, she could hear feet running inside the house, and she braced herself. When the door opened, a small girl’s face smiled up at them with lipstick smeared across it. The girl was wearing a velvet top that matched her lipstick, and her mother came and stood behind her.

  Oh, her son had gone and found himself a beauty. The woman was tall and full figured, with dark hair that she was wearing in a low roll. A white blouse and black velvet pants looked very smart on her.

  “Mrs. Haggard, we’re so glad you could come,” the woman said.

  “Please call me Beatrice,” Beatrice said as she stretched out her hand.

  “What a lovely name,” the woman said. “I will call you that if you will call me Claire.”

  “Are you as clear as your name?” Beatrice asked her.

  “I try to be.” Claire pointed down at the girl who was standing next to her. “This is my daugher, Meg. She’s been waiting very hard for you to come.”

  “I’m pretending you’re my grandmother today,” Meg said.

  “Oh, you are?” Beatrice was surprised. “I’ve never had a grandchild.”

  Meg wrinkled her nose. “You haven’t? You look like you’re old enough to have one.”

  Rich reached over and tousled Meg’s hair. “Age isn’t the only prerequisite.”

  “May I touch your coat?” Meg asked.

  “I suppose you may.” Beatrice leaned over and let Meg stroke her collar. “It’s ermine. Winter ermine, they turn pure white, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. So they blend into the snow?”

  “Yes, so they blend in.” Beatrice remembered her hostess gift. “I have something for you and your mother.” She unzipped her carry case and pulled out her present. She had left it in a brown paper bag but put a big red bow on it.

  Claire undid the bow, reached into the bag, and pulled out the large, dark bulb. Beatrice realized it looked rather awful. She should have potted it up. What had she been thinking?

  “What is that shriveled thing?” Meg asked.

  “It’s an amaryllis. It will be a thing of beauty in a month or so.” Beatrice took the bulb from Claire’s hand and showed it to Meg. “You see this little green shoot? It will turn into a big stalk, and then a flower will explode from the end. This variety is called Picotee. They are my favorite. And I have a long history with amaryllis.
It produces a glorious white flower just tipped with red.”

  “Oh,” Meg’s face lit up. “Like a Kleenex dipped in blood.”

  Beatrice was nonplussed. It didn’t happen to her very often. What kind of life was this child leading?

  Claire also looked aghast. “Meg, what made you think of that?”

  “I had a bloody nose the other day.”

  “Well, that’s enough of that talk.” Claire reprimanded the child. “It sounds lovely, Beatrice. I’m sure we will enjoy it.”

  Bridget looked at her watch. She had told Claire she would be there by two, and it was almost three. She had just driven through Pepin and would soon be to Fort St. Antoine. The snow was slowing her down. Surely Claire would understand.

  Rachel was sleeping, the little brat. She always slept in the car. What Bridget should do was to get Chuck to drive them both around so she could get some sleep too.

  She had a bag full of three kinds of olives, two kinds of pickles, and Ziploc bags full of cut-up carrots and celery. It would have to do as the relish dish. She had found a great old relish tray from the sixties, lime green with starbursts. She thought it would be festive for the occasion.

  As she slowed to come into town, she noticed that someone was stuck in their driveway. She slowed down more and saw that it was a woman, standing by her car. Bridget couldn’t just drive past her. Maybe she needed help.

  She slowed the car down and rolled down the window, hoping the cold air wouldn’t wake up Rachel. “Do you need some help?”

  The blond woman looked over at her and said, “No, thank you. I called a neighbor. He should be on his way soon. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Were you going someplace for Thanksgiving?” Bridget asked, feeling sorry for her day ruined.

  “No, not exactly.” The blond woman was holding something wrapped in an afghan. “I just need to get out of here.”